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Kinky Friedman, Texan musician and humorist, has died

Kinky Friedman, Texan musician and humorist, has died

Kinky Friedman, a riotous literary figure with a penchant for self-mythology and a deep love of animals, whose music and writings were loved by everyone from Bob Dylan to Bill Clinton, died Thursday. He was 79.

Born on November 1, 1944, Friedman caused a sensation in the early and mid-1970s with the absurd, satirical songs of his band Kinky Friedman and the Texas Jewboys in a folksy cowboy style, which had shocking titles like “Get Your Biscuits in the Oven and Your Buns in Bed” and “The Ballad of Charles Whitman.”

He was signed to Vanguard Records in the early 1970s after being introduced to the label by Ray Benson of Asleep at the Wheel, who had met Friedman through George Frayne (aka Commander Cody) in California.

Shortly thereafter, Friedman opened a show for Benson’s Western Swing Band in Berkeley. The extroverted Friedman took the stage at the incubator of feminism in red, white and blue cowboy chaps, smoking a cigar, holding a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand and a guitar in the other, and playing “Get Your Biscuits in the Oven and Your Buns in Bed.”

The women in the audience went mad, Benson recalled, some storming the stage and calling the artist a pig. The show was indicative of the kind of provocation that would come to define Friedman’s musical career.

“That was his life,” Benson said. “But he was a master. His songs were incredible. He was a great writer and his books were fascinating,” Benson said.

Friedman’s outrageous life as an actor was marked by tenderness. He was committed to animal welfare. He founded the Utopia Animal Rescue Ranch in the Hill Country, where he raised and cared for thousands of stray, abused and aging animals.

Friedman, whose lyrics and performances caused knees to drop, jaws to drop, fists to clench and eyes to roll, turned to novel writing after a decade in the music business, penning hard-hitting crime novels in the style of Raymond Chandler, usually starring his eponymous character.

In 2001, Evan Smith, editor in chief of Texas Monthly, commissioned Friedman to write a column on the magazine’s back page called “The Last Roundup.”

“The cover of the magazine is traditionally its front door, its entrance,” Smith told the American-Statesman. “And I wanted people to have a second door into the magazine. What’s special about him is that he kind of ran on his own coordinates. He was an incredibly complicated person: very talented and completely mismatched. All good media crosses boundaries at the right time and in the right way, and I thought he would cross boundaries and actually expand our audience to include his audience or at least give us an opportunity to bring in people who hadn’t read the magazine before.”

“That’s undeniably what happened,” Smith continued. “I think he also scared some people away. His sense of humor wasn’t everyone’s sense of humor. It was absolutely mine. All in all, I liked what he did.”

Friedman’s outrageous performative side was tempered by a tenderness that could sometimes be surprising, as in his sentimental 2001 column “The Navigator” about his late father, who was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross and the Air Medal during World War II.

Friedman’s column was put on hold when the musician, writer and provocateur ran for governor of Texas as an independent in 2006 under the slogan “Why the hell not?”

With 12.45% of the vote, he came fourth in a tight field that included Republican incumbent and winner Rick Perry.

His plan was to win the support of a broad swath of Texas voters disillusioned with the two major parties, but Friedman was realistic about his chances in Texas.

“Part of the charm of my quixotic campaign is that it is seen as a joke by some, as a statement of faith by others,” he wrote. “To paraphrase Ronald Reagan, the other guy has the experience – that’s why I’m running.”

Additional reporting by John Moritz.